“At this point, she’ll begin to feel some pain through the disorientation,” Ed said. He’d judged the time perfectly. Ms. Three jerked hard against her bonds, making a high thin squealing noise. The heavy chair jumped and moved sluggishly side to side as she thrashed. He flinched as she thrashed; somehow he hadn’t expected that, the terror, the hysteria. It made it all seem so unpleasant.

A thin wisp of smoke came out of the coat.

“Oh my God,” said Mr. One, almost reverently.

“Yes, yes, quite right. That’s enough. Mr. Four? Ah, Mr. Four?” Ed swallowed hard as the flames blossomed white, bright as magnesium flares. The stink of burning meat made them all flinch, but the sound was worse, sizzle, sizzle, bacon in a pan. Ed kept his seat with an effort and tried again. “Mr. Four, if you wouldn’t mind, please, Mr. Four, you have the extinguisher. Sir? Mr. Four—now, please—”

“Put her out!” yelled Mr. One. He was on his feet, eyes wide. “Christ, man, you made your fucking point, put her out!”

Mr. Four cradled the fire extinguisher in his arms and rested his chin on the safety-locked valve. Ms. Three’s pastel chair jittered and jerked and blackened with heat and the cooking juices of her body. Mr. One took a hesitant step toward him, and Mr. Four turned. He had an unpleasantly gleeful shine in his eyes.

Ed licked his lips and said. “Mr. Four, please. Please.” How had things gone so wrong? He’d just wanted a simple demonstration, yes, of course, she would have died, but not like this, not this ghastly piece of—

Mr. Four popped the pin and sprayed the black corroded thing with white foam. There was surprisingly little smoke, but the smell was hideous, burst bowels, cooked muscle. Mr. One retreated to the windows and stood looking out blindly at the sunshine. The skyline of Las Vegas looked carnival-bright in the glare.

All right, all right. Ed took a deep breath through his mouth, tasting acrid grease, and cleared his throat. He struggled to put his mind back on the business at hand, because business it was, important business. Clearly Mr. One, though laudably conscientious, wouldn’t be a reliable repeat customer, and all good business was founded on repeat customers. Equally clearly, he could not sell to Mr. Four. The man was a lunatic.

Ed built himself a sturdy Scotch and soda, and drank it fast without tasting it.

“Impressive,” said Mr. Two, the IRA man. “I’m prepared to buy now. Exclusively, of course. If you’re fixing drinks, I’m up for one.”

Ed turned in relief, Scotch bottle extended like a welcoming hand.

Mr. Five drew a gun from his coat, a silenced automatic, and coolly shot Mr, Four in the forehead. Blood flecked the wallpaper. As Mr. Two went for his own weapon, Five shot him twice in the heart.